The bright red picnic tables outside the White
Horse Tavern on Hudson Street are ready
for customers, their paint as glossy as if it were
not the end of the season—almost October—
with the sun, bright but no longer burning, falling
down over everything except where the blue
umbrellas cast their shade. A woman of sixty
or so, with a violet permanent bob and sunglasses,
a sturdy figure in a high-necked paisley dress,
hesitates on the sidewalk, checking and rechecking
a scrupulously clipped newspaper item, as if
the old neon horse’s head over the door—unlit
at present, but unmistakable—is not sufficient
proof that this is the place she has traveled so far to reach.